


Pas de Deux

by SouthernBird



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballerina!Lance, Ballet, Biker AU, Biker!Nyma, Dancer AU, F/M, In which I butcher Ballet Terminology, Leather Babe Nyma, Pretty Lance, Worlds Collide Kind of Thing, ballerina au, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9157156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: She loves him, loves his bruised toes, his bony limbs, and his corny flirting, and he adores her, is so ruined by her (and how she relishes it), how their classes and careers should have never met, never bonded, never dated and found each other in the spaces between their bodies, a biker chick and a boy that just wanted to be a swan.(Biker/Dancer AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to get this out of my system, I think, and personally, the thought of a tall, blond biker!Nyma with her pretty, little dancer!Lance is my aesthetic.

The apartment, located in the district of the city that isn’t fabulously swath with wealth yet not in ramshackle state from the stresses of impoverishment, is better than what Nyma had imagined for herself before she had a roommate with certain _expectations_.

 

As she parks her custom motorcycle in the parking garage, putting on the anti-theft locks and the such, she wonders why the hell she was not crashing happily on the gasoline and grease stained couch of her gang’s garage downtown. It had been fun, being able to binge on the myriad of high-sodium snacks and cheap booze while blasting out the good ol’ rock bands of days before her time. 

 

Instead, she pulls her key ring out, a little blue kitty charm on it from her boyfriend that jingles with its small bell as its pulled from the confines of her leather jacket pocket, to a cozy two bedroom apartment that has color coordinated curtains and an alphabetically organized pantry.

 

Nyma, street savvy and smart ass woman that she is, wonders what the hell went wrong, or well, what went right because she had envisioned more bar brawls and broken bones as opposed to spending more time from the biker gang she loved more than her own life to watch ballets at the city theatre. The extravagance and mannerisms of artsy culture have never been her style, never to her liking, having preferred to hear the roar of a well-tuned engine after her repairs as opposed to the strings and percussions of orchestra weaving their notes to the dancers’ storytelling.

 

Undeniably, she has to begrudgingly admit that when she opens the door to her now home and smells the first waft of the cranberry-orange wall scents, she feels a little more comfortable than her prior stressed-out-on-fighting lifestyle. Tooth and nail were understatements, having more bruised knuckles and black eyes than befitting most women her age, but she has, and never will, drop down from a good tussle of physical prowess. Those barbells she lifts aren’t for _fun_ , after all. 

 

Stomping her combat boots on the welcome mat in hopes that she will _not_ incur the wrath of her sweet little babe, she sets her jacket on the rack, her keys on the foyer table, boots left next to some blue and white sneakers that indicates that said sweet little babe is home, the sight drawing her from her musings. 

 

For a moment, her ears strain for music on the speakers throughout the home; music is eclectic in their nicely decorated abode, ranging from the beats of Bruno Mars or Nicki Minaj that blasts with the smells of dinner, or the softer, finer ensembles of Mozart from the piano that sits in the makeshift dance studio at the end the hall, across from their bedroom. 

 

This evening, this one where for the first time in her adult life, Nyma turned down Rolo’s invite to go to the bar on Seventh Ave where she knocked the shit out of some asshole that perved on her boyfriend when they went last because she freaking _craved_ their Thursday night deal of half-off brews and wings. While the usual scene was more on the decorum of leather and grunge, her poor sweet man, her little kitten, had of course decided his leggings and over-sized sweater were perfectly acceptable and hardly an issue. 

 

The asshole she decked in less than a second after the fifth catcall accompanied with a slap on Lance’s ass proved him otherwise, but she wasn’t complaining when he played nurse for her. 

 

Tonight, it’s a recording of some part she vaguely can identify, but it’s illustrious all the same, romantic in the swells of strings that draw low before building into a soft highs that glisten down, mysterious yet alluring. 

 

It’s more than likely a pas de deux, and Lance is probably is in ‘secret’ en pointe shoes, acting out the role of the female, something he cannot do in his own dance company since they lack the parts. 

 

Or, rather, it’s Lance’s attempt at the act since she knows from his sassy little quip, “a pas de deux takes two.” 

 

Quietly, Nyma makes her way down the hall, glancing at the framed pictures of their little dates, a few selfies here and there, a group shot of her with her gang and one of Lance with his dance company— has it seriously been this long since they met, since that night they crossed paths outside a nightclub on her way to the gym, since Lance was a gorgeous glowing sight in blue body glitter and a crop top that showed off those sinews of muscles and curves?

 

Even to this second, she is unsure of what drew Lance to her, what made him saunter up as he left the club, high on adrenaline and smelling so damn _good_ because they’re worlds apart, realities so varied from each other, it was almost through sheer force of will that their eyes, his so fathomless in blue and hers so dark in their plums. 

 

The door is ajar, just enough for her to peek in, to see Lance in his prime, in the ambiance that takes him away, in the dance that draws him from reality, that whisks him to candy lands with sweets, that traverses to swan lakes and balconies of yore. 

 

As he did on that night, Lance steals Nyma’s breath away, makes it his own, draws from it as bird in flight, though he is hardly a bird, hardly so flighty. 

 

No, he is beauty ethereal, carved from those masterful hands of old for marble, sculpted with such divine care and attention that he is subliminal, an aesthetic not that of earth yet more of iridescent shells and pearl-white foam. When he moves, he is water, rivers streaming towards the sea so lovingly that it hurts to peer at, as though his whole being submerged and gracious. His skin, though, is her downfall, soft and sumptuous caramel that is hers, all hers, and how possessive she is of him, it must be sinful.

 

He is so lost, so abysmally lost in the harps that glisten, so entrapped in the violins that string about the vision of a fairy with her cavalier, her fouetté and her arabesque in time with his hands, those that would support Lance through the sweeps of lifts and turns. 

 

Lance, though, has no partner to be his cavalier, has no support in this universe he has conceived within their rented space, instead relying on his own talents, on his own support, and it almost breaks her heart to observe this, to watch lonely pirouettes and careful piqués. 

 

Just weeks ago, the dance company’s rendition of _The Nutcracker_ played for the Christmas season, and somehow, the blonde was conned into going— which was more of Lance pulling out those puppy eyes and batting lashes as opposed to some great black mail attempt that she pretended to be victim to— dragging Rolo and Beezer with her. They had to borrow clothes for the event, her best friend and partner in crime having the luck of dating a girl that likes to dress up, Rolo joking the whole time while his significant other fussed over Nyma for the big debut. 

 

Nyma would be damned if she didn’t wear heels for this boy, her steps unsteady with each click through the theatre lobby while having to use Rolo for support; she already towered over so many, standing at a proud six foot, three inches, well above her dancing sweetheart, a fact that her buddies at the garage like to tease at all the time. They're especially worse when Lance is in her lap, his favorite place in the whole wide world other than his mother’s and his dance studio, since she _would_ pick a little thing to date. It’s a little too lovey dovey for her when he kisses and he cuddles her, ruining her kick ass image in just a few little whines. 

 

For him, she’d suffer though. She’s whipped, stupidly whipped, knows it’s so when she had to sit with Lance’s friends, had to meet honey sweet Hunk and snarky Pidge, had to suffer through a grumbling Keith and an apologetic Shiro while Lance danced on stage with Shiro’s fiancé, the principal dancer and Sugar Plum Fairy herself, Allura. 

 

It was just awkward, and it wasn’t that they didn’t try because Lance hadn’t shut up about her, hadn’t just spelled out everything with remarkable acclaim about his girlfriend to his friends. It was just… _out of place_ for her, especially when introduced to Allura who seemed more a part of the spectrum that Lance should have dated within, should have found a lover within. 

 

Yet, it’s all worth it when her eyes can follow each motion Lance makes as he bounds to one corner of his space, arms graceful in their position as they sweep up and he steps en pointe into a series of spins; someone help her, she is so incredibly in love, loves his long legs in those tights, loves how his sweater flutters with him, loves how his eyes are barely open, deep and dark with how he _feels_ instead of how he _should_ be. 

 

It was the same fluttering feeling Nyma had seen in Shiro’s eyes as he brought roses to his darling, how Allura’s smile brightened her beauty to the point she glowed. 

 

Here though, it’s everything Nyma has within her not to interrupt him, not to pause his land of dance and wonderment with sweets and flowers that can dance with him to carry him to their room so that they perform a sensual dance of their own, one that involves less clothes and more skin, one that is so intimately warm and _theirs_. 

 

Nyma will not do that to Lance, not when he flows, not when he dips and curves to the ends of his body, an image of grand beauty that stands out, a swan in its pearlescent prime, a mermaid harking the next victim into his cold depths with his dance rather than his voice. She couldn’t bear it, to ease him back into the reality that he was a bit worried to revel in his otherworldly grace when he goes en pointe, bears the weight onto the boxes of those shoes for minutes on end as he weaves adaigo with pointe work. 

 

“Male roles are all right, but they’re like… supporting roles,” she recalls Lance dwelling on one time when they were in the afterglow of one of their first times together, her front along the tiny curve of his back as she caressed her fingers through brunet locks, “female roles… those are the hard ones. You gotta be graceful when being picked up, you gotta be in sync and beautiful at all times, you gotta be sure every movement is perfect and graceful because that’s the whole point: they’re the stars, and the heart of ballets.” 

 

His mother, bless her, had smiled a time when Nyma and Lance visited her, and with a touch of her hand along the back of Nyma’s, his mother to her, “you see, he wanted to be a ballerina since he saw his sister dance in _Swan Lake._ ” She had laughed, so full of maternal warmth, saccharine and adoring and so full of encouragement, “‘I want to be the swan!’ he had said! _Mijo_ was meant to be a swan, a dancer!” 

 

He was, and is, Nyma knows this when the world he’s created within the confines of his mind, the world he clings to in secrecy is coming to a lulling end as he rolls up en pointe and works his way to the center, a spin with a slowly extending leg and—. 

 

She’s gone, rushing inside to gather him because damn, if she isn’t strong enough for the both of them, isn’t strong enough to see how when he lifts a frail girl, he struggles just a bit, his own frame so tenderly lithe, so gorgeous beneath her in the dark space of their bedroom, so— “Lance,” she whispers into his ear, his body flush against hers, his breath caught for a moment before he exhales long and smiles along her jaw since their current position is a bit of a cumbersome one, but he’s so quick to read her, folding in a leg as he poses in the finale of his dance, this end scene. 

 

“Hey, babe,” he mutters, and he’s so calm after these sessions, so lost in the lull of his exhausting movements that all his boundless energy is missing, expended entirely, as they fall into silence. 

 

Lance is almost a different person entirely, the opposite of rapid fire and sass galore. Here, he is kitten warm, sweet (though he’s always sweet) and cuddly, wanting attention and love that’s far more vanilla than Nyma would usually allot herself. Though, what is she thinking, possibly contradicting the ecstatic thumps of her own heartbeat, how it still races when she’s in the presence of his pulchritude?

 

His eyes reveal to her a magnificence that is deeper than skin, resounding in his own core and tells her without words that he feels the same, that his heartbeat is just as sporadic and inclined to her nature. 

 

She loves him, loves his bruised toes, his bony limbs, and his corny flirting, and he adores her, is so ruined by her (and how she relishes it), how their classes and careers should have never met, never bonded, never dated and found each other in the spaces between their bodies, a biker chick and a boy that just wanted to be a swan. 

 

“Hey, yourself,” she teases, barely speaking an octave above a murmur as she sets him down though her spirit almost yearns at the loss of his weight being held affixed there. “Practicing for the lead role again?” she teases as kindly as possible, leaning in to rub their noses, an act that brings a lazy grin to those pretty lips, the same lips she’s about to kiss into oblivion. 

 

“You know it,” he reciprocates, feet rolling until he’s on the points of his shoes to kiss her, chuckling despite the slightness of a grimace along his brow; he must have been at it for a few hours, must have pushed himself once again to the point of soreness despite having rehearsed all day with his company. 

 

“C’mon, purple fairy thing,” because, really, she doesn’t have a clue about dancing nutcrackers and snowflakes, but she will try for him, Nyma really will, she will soothe those legs after a hot bath together, will help him with his stretches to hinder any injuries and any aches before she whisks him away to bed. They might not do much, maybe just lay there in the comforts of sheets and pillows, just bask in one another because for all her tough demeanor, for all her punches and her spite, she loves him most when he’s by her side, loves him most with her efforts to be gentle with him. 

 

 

He will follow, as he always does, does not let the ideas of roles within a relationship bely him the comfort his lover wants to bestow, does not fight her when she draws a salted bath and puts in an order from their favorite take out place. Rather, he will press against her side, so enthralled with her own beauty that it might unease her at times because she is the treasure of their relationship, the beauty and the star, but they way he looks at her might just tell her different. After all, he jokes against her ear in a lazy drawl, a pas de deux takes two. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
